


We Can’t Dance Synonyms

by raineraine



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Ballet, Ballet Bucky, Ballet Dancer Black Widow, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Comic to Canon, Dancer Bucky Barnes, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Marvel Universe, Modern Bucky Barnes, NSFW, Natalia Romanova - Freeform, Natasha Feels, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha-centric, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, OTP Feels, One Shot, One True Pairing, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Red Room (Marvel), References to Canon, Sex, Sexual Tension, Smut, buckynat - Freeform, dance, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9486704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raineraine/pseuds/raineraine
Summary: After James "Bucky" Barnes re-discovers ballet, he gets back more than he ever imagined.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my first Bucky x Nat (WinterWidow) work, and I'm glad you've come here to discover it! Real quick I wanted to disperse some credit where credit is due before we jump in. 
> 
> First and foremost, this work was inspired by an art piece of Ballet!AU Bucky that I saw on tumblr by  Petite-Madame . Her art is beautiful, and she does a lot of Bucky (and Stucky) work-- you should all go check her out! 
> 
> Moving on, the title is from a quote by George Balanchine, for Life magazine in 1965. 
> 
> Not to be neglected, there is a specific song referenced in here,  Conscious by Broods.
> 
> Last but not least, I want to thank [h34rt1lly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LILYisatig3r/profile) as always-- for being my best friend, my beta, and my absolute drive for this story that was sparked from her getting me hooked on WinterWidow.

Bucky wasn’t one to pester-- unless, of course, it was Steve. When it came to anyone else, he simply accepted his annoyances with a sigh and tamped them down. One such annoyance that was grating on his nerves was the gym. Why on earth they needed an entire floor dedicated to workout and training, but didn’t have anything sectioned off for dance, was beyond him. ‘ _Stark doesn’t even know, ‘cept about Nat,_ ’ he mused as he pulled on a fitted black tank top. It wasn’t exactly a stab at Tony, considering he hadn’t spoken to anyone else about his muscles remembering more than he did. Before he could change his mind, he pulled on a pair of matching tights, and palmed a roll of tape in one hand as he snagged his shoes from the floor with the other.

_3:21am_

The glow of the microwave clock reminded him that it was now, or not today, as he slipped down the stairs. Everyone else kept normal hours, or as normal as they could. Bucky struggled to even sleep on a nightly basis, let alone within what was considered normal hours. His shoes hissed with wind resistance as he rounded the corner of each landing, four floors down before he reached the gym. Dedicated space or not, the floors were the same. He didn’t need a wall of mirrors to burn off the pressing twitches of his muscles, eager to return to something that he only vaguely could recall. Pushing open the door with a shake of his head, he brushed the touchpad for the lights before they had a chance to auto-register. Although he was sure FRIDAY had eyes and ears on every floor at all times, it made him feel more secluded to immerse himself in being _alone._

Sinking to the gym floor, Bucky’s hands worked of their own vocation, another memory manifesting without a clear sense of recollection. He taped his feet and ankles, wondering once again if perhaps he had done this barefoot as often as he had with shoes. With a measured exhale, he hooked his pointe shoes around his heels and laced them, not a shadow of doubt in his mind that he had chosen the color for a reason-- red. They felt more like a reminder than an aesthetic choice, but here he was, staring at the hue without a place to pinpoint it to.

He fiddled with his phone, setting it to his favorite playlist, before placing it face-down on the floor and beginning to stretch. The whole experience felt meditative, ritualistic even, despite the lack of necessity.   _Supersoldier serum doesn’t seem to affect everything._

It didn’t really matter what he danced to, if he was being honest. All that mattered was a tempo and space to move freely, following (or improvising?) intricate routines that felt like they belonged to another person entirely. In truth, something about letting go felt more like himself than any facade he convinced himself of. Who was Bucky Barnes anymore? Who had he been? This, dancing, felt like unearthing another fragment of who he had been during the time between his fall and this moment.

After coming down here for a few weeks, Bucky felt at ease in his movements, and was even adding in things that felt more like his own affirmative choice, rather than merely reflexive. Something about the color of the shoes he just couldn’t shake, every time he caught a glimpse as he bent, spun, or leaned-- even the reflection off of the the floors. The past few days he had been watching videos of male ballet dancers, as well as paired dancers, and made a conscious effort to incorporate some of the more contemporary-appearing movements. Even in the ‘40s, there was ballet-- he did go to art school, after all. There was pieces like that, memories of Brooklyn, that felt as clear as day; other times, there was fog, blurring over the red reflections in the polished floors.

One thing about dancing that still felt like it was against everything he knew (granted, even if all he knew for certain was what Hydra shoved down his throat) was the way he lost time. It could be hours before he surfaced, dripping sweat and the euphoric burn of muscles, blinking into his reality as the a song faded out. That tendency was getting more frequent, and how late he had come down today was risky, but it couldn’t be helped. Bucky knew he would end up here, one way other another-- he just wasn’t ready to face anyone else here, not yet. Closing his eyes in a feeble effort to quiet his mind, Bucky was under once again, flying into a revoltade.

Under, just in time to be drug up again.

The door opened just as the last F note reverberated, Bucky’s feet in a perfect pointe, spine arched backwards and arms extended to hold his balance. He didn’t break position as his eyes opened, searching for the interruption. Usually-dormant memories screamed at him to slide into a crouch, roared about his lack of weapon-- but he knew the Tower’s security measures. This was no threat, at least, not physically. This was a flare of red hair and milky skin, smatterings of black to form shapes of clothing that he wasn’t really looking bothering to assess, trailing down long legs to find… Red. Shoes.

In defeat, Bucky’s feet slid into first position, flattening to the floor as his heels stayed together. His eyes hadn’t left the floor, studying the parallel of the reflections their shoes displayed-- it was poetic, even he could recognize that. Dragging his gaze up, back over long legs that he could now see were clad in shorts, up over the black sports bra, and up to wide eyes framed by wisps of red hair. He should have known, if anyone would find him, it would be like this.

“Natalia.”

Her true name always spilled from his lips of their own volition. Nat’s brow quirked, a thought unspoken, as she gave him a brisk nod. He wondered if she was going to leave, perhaps feeling intrusive. Bucky shook his head, the movement miniscule but one he knew wouldn’t go unnoticed by her. Breaking his pose, he slid a foot forward and ducked his head, eyes at her level, even from across the room. He crooked a finger, beckoning her to come closer, though she stayed in the same position-- appearing to be caught between giving him space and curiosity.

  
“Присоединяйся ко мне?” Russian fell from his lips as easily as it did hers, despite not remembering learning it. _Join me?_  


He watched her weigh the question, years of unanswered ones still hanging between them. Bucky would have to have been foolish to not notice how it pained her when he didn’t remember, and sometimes, even worse when he did. He felt responsible for the decay of her relationship with Clint, but had no words to offer either of them-- at least, not yet. He only had his hand, still poised towards her, waiting for an answer to the only question he’d been able to ask her in weeks.  


“Я всегда так делаю, не так ли?” she muttered, dropping her bag on the floor and closing the gap between them, her eyes gazing somewhere between his tied-back hair and his shoulder. The drop in her gaze and the tone of her words didn’t go unnoticed, but Bucky left that battle for another time. _I always do, is it not?_ The double meaning of her expression clenched something deep in his mind, the pain almost physical as he struggled to even his breathing.  


Did she? Had they always been partners? The way Natasha told it, they had always been something. **Something.**

She was poised, years of grace ingrained down to her bones, and waiting for him to join her. He held up a finger before leaning to swipe his phone from the floor. Bucky wasn't ready to break eye contact, but if he didn't, this unfamiliar and still-fragile partnership might evaporate before the song could begin. He dropped his eyes from the steel of Nat’s, prompting a new song before slipping behind her with hands ghosting the bare skin of her hips.  


_When I come alive_

_Such a pretty light_

_I can beautiful_

_I can be right_

There was no leadership between them. Only paired movements, every action igniting a reaction that felt easy enough to be one of his dreams. He may not have had concrete memory recall of Natalia, but he had glimpses as he slept-- flashes that became more vivid after he danced. While he slept, their grace didn't feel like a possibility, but rather the only known reality. Now here they were, predicting each movement of the other, deftly subverting gravity and time with their enhanced senses in tandem.  


_Wake me up and keep me conscious_

_Wake me up and keep me…_

He pulled her closer for a jump, fingers gripping her with unspoken questions. To Nat’s credit, she remained unshaken, hands meeting his shoulders for support as they transitioned. As the song faded, he wondered how long he had with her here, before they shattered fantasy for reality once again. Back to Just Avengers.

“James.”

His sigh was audible, chin almost resting on her shoulder. Bucky raised a finger to her lips, his hand cupping her chin.  


“Пожалуйста. Просто еще один танец, Наталия?” He held his breath, replaying his own words as he drown in her silence. _Please. Just one more dance, Natalia?”_

Nat’s head leaned back to his chest in surrender, fingers finding Bucky’s thigh and giving him a light squeeze. “Джеймс… Просто еще один танец.”

_James… Just one more dance._

Something about her tone, his position behind her, their very words, felt so… familiar. This is how it tended to happen, when the memories came back-- the feeling was a prelude to reclamation. This was just one more reason he couldn’t let her leave. Not yet.

He wasn’t paying attention to what song was playing anymore. The mix of classical and contemporary in his playlist was just an addition to the immersion-- it demanded changes in style and close attention. All he knew was this, whatever it was, was fast and demanding from the start. Bucky felt her skin flush under his hands before she slipped from his grip, all allégro steps as she jumped and turned back to meet his eyes with her burning challenge. Some part of him knew what she was doing, baiting him just as much as he was begging her.

Nat was no stranger he had been-- but was she challenging James, Bucky, or the Winter Soldier? Her eyes didn’t leave him with each movement, watching him match her pace and weaving around her movements in seamless time. When they were fluid, like this, it felt like he knew it. It felt less like living and more like suspension, swaying between the blurred outlines he could recall and the reality he could grasp.

  
“Arabesque,” Bucky bit out from his position behind her, not realizing he he had even spoken until the echo of his own voice hit him.

  
Natasha, to her credit, didn’t even question his request. She straightened, one leg extended behind her, pointe perfect and position steady. He slid into second position, feet flat but legs spread, with a hand on her thigh to support her extended leg.

“Allongé, Natalia. Hold,” his voice had dropped several octaves, metal fingers sliding from the back of her thigh to the front as he adjusted his grip. “I know you can.”  


“You aren’t even making it a challenge, James!” She laughed, mocking his efforts, without so much as a tremor in her pose. It was just what he wanted.  


“You want a challenge?” His words were a low growl into her hair, hand sliding to palm the seam of her shorts. “I could challenge you.”  


“Попробуйте меня, солдат.”  


_Try me, soldier._  


His resolve drained just as the words dripped from her lips, thick and antagonizing. Leaning into to her so that her back was braced against his chest, Bucky dipped his head to her shoulder, pieces of hair that had been dislodged brushing along her skin. Nat shivered, a crack in her facade. He had her. He knew it now.  


“Do you remember when we first met?” The question hung between them as he rolled the hem of her shorts in his fingers.  


“The better question is do you?” Nothing but a whisper, but enough for him to hear her. _She sounds so… unlike herself. Bothered._  


“I’m starting to, Natalia,” Bucky pressed a kiss to her shoulder and gripped her hips, rolling her to second position. “I never forgot you, not completely. And I don’t think I can handle forgetting when I’m just starting to find what I’m looking for.”  


Nat’s foot slipped to demi-pointe as his hand slipped into her shorts. Bucky’s teeth met her shoulder in tandem with his fingers meeting her clit, and she folded. Position forgotten, she arched her back, grinding her hips into his as he touched her. The only place she allowed herself to fall apart, had ever allowed herself anything beyond a measured slack in her control, was with him. Decades stood between the last time he touched her and this moment, ripping through her walls with a fervor that she had forgotten could exist. Metal, just like she remembered, stroking her toward oblivion.

Bucky’s arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her to him as he pleasured her. Thankfully, he didn’t bother with dance belts-- today of all days, he was grateful for the fact. Rucking her bra upwards, he palmed one of her breasts, nipple hardening against the friction of his touch. Her held fell to his shoulder, breathless whimpers making it harder to wait. They had been building the anticipation for longer than he could remember, since the first lingering glance when he moved into the tower, and he was resisting the urge to rush it.

Natasha regained just enough of her bearings to slip her hand behind her, fingers dancing over his steeled erection through his tights. Her fingers were deft, skittering over the fabric just enough to create drag, before she slipped inside the waistband and found what she was searching for. At the feel of her hand wrapped around his achingly hard cock, Bucky was the one to crumble, stumbling the two steps back to lean against the wall. He left his toying of her nipples in favor of her throat-- turning her head to expose her neck as he trailed hard bites of frustration over her milky flesh in tandem to him slipping his metal fingers inside of her.

She sank, posture devoid of any composure as he gave and gave. _This has to be a dream,_ Nat scrutinized as she registered the sound of her moans paired with the rustle of fabric as she stroked him. _But I can't wake up. Not now._ His hands left her, eliciting a groan of protest, before she felt him shifting. Bucky didn't give her time to react, hazy as his touch had left her, before she heard his knees banging on the polished wood floors. His hands were on her hips and his pupils blown with lust,  hesitant until she knotted a hand in his hair. That was all the encouragement he needed.

It didn’t take long to strip her of her shorts, leaving her standing in her sports bra, panties, and pointe shoes-- and for once, she felt overdressed. She pulled off her bra, letting it fall from her fingers as soon as she was free of it. He paused, about to relieve her of her panties,  before leaning back on his heels to look at her. Nat squirmed, impatient for his touch, but he shook his head and quietly shushed her. A lingering touch on her ribcage, a kiss placed on her knee, all a prelude to him unlacing her pointe shoes and tossing them aside. Bucky’s hands trailed from her bare feet back up, resting on her panties once again.  
  
  
Here they were-- the edge of infinity.

A roll of her hips to meet his face and a jut of his tongue under lace.

There was no turning back.  


Bucky pressed her back harder, bracing his metal hand against the wall as he hitched her legs to rest on his shoulders. Nat arched, shoulders pressing against the wall as her thighs clenched around his neck, hands knotted in Bucky’s hair to keep steady. She distantly thought of the parallel between the last time she’d had her legs around him like this-- when Zemo had set off his programming and he had tried to kill her. She was in control then, all fury and choices in her efforts to restrain him. Now here she was, falling apart in his hands, hardly able to breathe between the screams he was eliciting with his tongue.

Even with the magic of James’s mouth, Natalia Romanova couldn’t lose control forever.

Her nails dug into his scalp, pulling his head back until he looked at her, confusion and frustration coloring his expression at the denial of his task. Nat tugged, pulling him up to meet her (and unwinding her legs from him) before her lips were on his. As they kissed, she maneuvered until he was the one against the wall, with her hands fisting the front of his tank top. “You’re a little overdressed, soldier,” she breathed against his mouth. “I think I can fix that for you.”

She tugged the tie out of his hair, watching it fall around his face in waves before she stripped him of his shirt. Running her nails over his nipples as she slid toward the floor, she knelt, running her nose along his cock through the tights. Bucky’s hips lurched at the gentle touch, shuddering in anticipation of her touch. “Don’t tease me, Natalia,” he warned.  


“You’ll be lucky if that’s all I do,” she threw back as she unlaced his pointes. “Can’t expect you to remember all the details.”  


His gaze darkened as he pushed away from the wall, pinning her to the floor before she could say another word. “Can’t expect you to remember all of them either, Natalia.”  


Her smirk was infectious, leaving them both biting back laughter in the midst of the tension, and she was reminded why she had missed him so despairingly. Why it had been so hard to act like strangers when they had been everything. Why she needed this, any of this, so much that it was as if his name was engraved on every inch of her.  


“Пожалуйста. Ты мне нужен,” the words left her mouth before she gave herself the chance to overthink them, truth she hadn’t admitted since the day they found him in Romania. _Please. I need you._  


“У тебя есть я, дорогая,” Bucky’s words echoed through the gym, sounding like a promise he had made so many years before. Tears pricked at Nat’s eyes in tandem with Bucky yanking down his tights and kissing her thigh. “Ты всегда был со мной.”  


_You have me, darling._ His words were on repeat somewhere deep in her subconscious, as fresh as they were familiar. _You were always with me._ Natalia wondered if this was his apology, an explanation for his distance. Did he remember? Had he?  


None of those questions mattered the moment he thrust into her.

He was here, he was real, he was flesh, and he was wonderful.

Bucky folded his legs under him, pulling Nat upwards to sit with him as he thrust. He cupped her face and held her there, letting himself look at her, really look at her since the moment she had found him today. _Fuck, maybe for the first time since she_ **_found_ ** _me_ , he thought, studying her enraptured bliss as he buried himself deeper inside her. Her moans and keens peeling across the mostly-empty room were the source of his ecstasy. More than the way she felt, more than the way she looked, it was the way she sounded-- the way she responded to his every movement.  


“James,” Nat breathed, hands searching for an anchor as she wound her arms around his neck. “James, James, James.”  


“Natalia,” his voice had dropped to a whisper, forehead pressed to her’s as he increased the tempo. “Come with me, Natalia.”  


At the command she nearly came undone. His grip on her hips tightened and he withdrew, causing her to convulse in frustration just as he pressed her back against the wall where this had started. She couldn’t contain her scream as he reentered her, grateful for her interlocked fingers at the nape of his neck as his name continued to spill from her lips. He held her close as his motions became more erratic, no longer the measured Winter Soldier mindset-- once again, just James, slipping under the spell of the Black Widow.

He kissed her to quell the roar he felt building in his chest as he came, harder than he could ever remember, barely supporting them as his knees quaked with exertion. Her cries were muffled into his mouth, not unnoticed, as she abandoned her knotted fingers in favor of holding his face.

They separated, spent, as they sank once more to the floor. Nat stretched as she studied him, seeing him differently than she had in every recalled memory. He wasn’t the same person-- he wasn’t Hydra’s dog, fighting against a leash to get to the nearest bitch in heat. He wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes. He wasn’t Steve’s Bucky. He was as much the forties as he was the present, as much soldier as he was lover, as much lost as he wanted to be found. She couldn’t spend her life trying to rebuild the corpse of a man that didn’t exist, not any more than Steve.

What she could do was learn all she could about the man in front of her, here and now.

“Do you want to get some breakfast?”

Bucky cocked his head, watching her as she pulled on her clothes piece by piece. “It depends on who you’re asking.”|  
  
  
“Whoever you are now.”

He stalled at her brazen words, her earnest expression edged with conviction. Leaving their shoes scattered across the floor, he offered her a hand up. She took it, watching his face for signs of anger, and found only curiosity.

“I think I’d like to find that out, too,” he answered quietly.

“Crepes or french toast?”


End file.
